


Round the Bend

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-01
Updated: 2004-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:05:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rats are coming! The werewolves are here!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Round the Bend

**Author's Note:**

> An icon ficlet for Isis. The prompt was a picture of a horror movie poster bearing the tagline in the summary.

Prongs twists around to dart after Padfoot into the darkness between the trees, and the wood-smooth base of the antler slips away out of Peter's paws. He clutches at the air, falling, falling, pounding of sharp hooves in his ears, his tail whipping back and forth for balance that isn't there— and hits the ground hard on his side.

The wind is knocked out of him, but he staggers to his feet, slipping on the wet grass. Dizzy... Oh, his ribs... bruised or broken?

He blinks to clear his vision and looks up, straining to see. Prongs and Padfoot are gone. Only the wolf is still there, barrel chest and long legs backlit by the moon. It saunters towards Peter, hips swaying, too-long front paws grasping at the earth with every step. Traitorous body, bastard child of wolf and ape.

Peter knows, part of him knows, that it's just Remus, that there's nothing to fear... But it's so hard to remember sometimes, and oh his head... and adrenaline floods up like ice and he can't breathe anymore, can't remember anymore.

The wolf lowers its head; its eyes are silver-blank slits, congealing metal. Hot breath blows over Peter's nostrils, tasting of meat and murder. The wolf edges even closer to get a whiff of him. Stiff white whiskers brush against Peter's muzzle; a slow shudder stands all his fur on end.

The jaws open— gleaming black teeth— unnatural sun-hot breath closes in around him, enfolds him-- Peter can't move, instinct-frozen. He feels the point of each fang come to rest against his skin, threatening to break through, to tear, to infect. Then his paws lift up off the ground, and he's held in the air between four even rows of invisible needles.

The wolf twists its neck around, Peter shrieks— and finds himself dropped lightly down between Moony's shoulder blades. Gasping, he clings convulsively to the barely-furred grey flesh, digging his claws in. The wolf's low growl rumbles up through Peter's paws, through his belly. He feels like his heart's going to stop.

But there's no chance to catch his breath. Moony lurches forward and gallops off to rejoin his pack, and it's all Peter can do to hang on for dear life.


End file.
